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Now his official home was a specialized piece of that agency that John Q. Public had never heard of and never would. He had two sets of creds: one for the public that showed him to be with Homeland Security and was suitably intimidating; and another set that he showed only to certain fellow federal agents. That evidenced his association with OSM, the Office of Special Matters. It was made up of personnel from five of the major intelligence agencies, though it was controlled by a handful of folks at Langley. "Office of Special Matters" sounded a little hokey, Knox thought, but what they did was far from it. Knox had been up to his ass in "special matters" for years, often handling six crises of international meltdown range at once.

In fact he'd been involved in every major op OSM had been handed over the last decade, including some paramilitary action that had gotten him back into the field with a gun and lives to take care of, and others simply to take. He'd narrowly avoided the "WMDs that never were" fiasco and then had spent six years in the Middle East doing things he would never write down and had done his best to forget about since.

He'd been thousands of miles away when his wife had died from a brain hemorrhage. He got back just in time for the funeral to say a hurried, mumbled good-bye to his life partner, the only woman he'd ever loved. To this day he felt like he had cheated her.

Twenty-four hours after burying her, he was back in Iraq trying to figure out where the next suicide blast was coming from and paying yesterday's enemies with good American cash so they'd kill extremists instead of U.S. troops. When the money eventually ran out Knox knew he didn't want to be within five time zones of the place. Then he'd gone back to his safe room in the Green Zone and wept for the love of his life in the privacy of his own nightmares.

It had been more than a challenge and in the last year Knox had seriously contemplated retirement after talking his way out of the Middle East where no Muslim trusted anyone with light skin who held a firm belief in the supreme holiness of the Lord Jesus Christ. He'd pulled enough time. He could go out on his terms. He was actually on a short sabbatical when Hayes had called. And now look at him. And the same old question had raised its ugly head once more:

Will the sun come up for me tomorrow?

He walked into his kitchen, tossed his keys on the counter, opened the fridge and popped a beer. He sat down in his small study and considered what he did and didn't know, the latter unfortunately being far more voluminous than the former. He slipped the pages from his pocket. He'd taken the two-page order with Macklin Hayes' signature on it. It was probably a felony stealing government property but Knox really didn't care at this point. He looked at the precise signature of the man.

What were you thinking when you signed that order, General?

He now had a connection between Hayes and Carr. That changed the dynamic of his mission, Knox just wasn't sure how. Yet it did explain one thing.

He was told he'd been ordered to track down Carr because the former Triple Six held secrets that would embarrass the U.S. government, or at the very least the CIA. Sometimes, for Knox, it was hard to tell the two apart. Hayes had said that Carter Gray had been concerned about that too. And that he'd been after Carr, but Carr had evidently gotten to him first.

That's what hadn't made sense. Carr had been at Gray's house the night it was blown up. So he'd evidently already known where Carr was. And on top of that Carr hadn't opened his mouth these last thirty years. So why would Gray or Hayes and the CIA be worried that the man was going to open it now?

Perhaps Gray had been after Carr for some reason, but not to kill the man. Ordering his grave to be dug up? Was he trying to flush him out, make him run? But why? Knox had a hunch the answer lay in the area he was prohibited from looking into. But he'd been "ordered" from doing things before. And he'd still gone ahead and done them.

And Hayes too had some strong reason for getting Carr out of the way. He must've thought Carr was dead all these years. Reading the man's face, Knox could tell he'd been out of the loop when the grave was dug up. And then to have no body in the coffin? All these years Hayes had probably felt safe. Now he didn't, and he was using Knox to take care of the problem for him.

And what exactly had happened at the Capitol Visitor Center? Had Carr really killed all those men? If so, why? Were they trying to kill him? Knox thought back to the notes he'd read about someone dispatching retired Triple Sixes. Had Stone been on that list? Had they gone after him for some reason? That was part of the puzzle that he apparently was not going to be allowed access to. Well, he would see about that.

If Carr had something on Hayes? Something personal? Now, that might be an interesting line to hunt down, if only to cover his backside when the time came. But he'd have to straddle the fence. If Hayes found out-

He'd turned the radio on in his study while he'd been thinking, and the news story caught his attention. Authorities knew who the killer was. They were closing in. All escape routes blocked.

What the hell?

He made the call. Hayes picked up on the second ring.

"I just heard the news," Knox said. "I thought the feds were being left off this one. If I've got an FBI posse breathing down my neck I'd like to know it."

"Not to worry, Knox, I had that story planted. It would be inconceivable for a man like Carr not to be listening to the news carefully. I want him to think he's trapped. Trapped men do stupid things. Then we move in. Just making your job easier."

Hayes clicked off.

"My ass you are," Knox said to the dead line.

The buzzing phone cut off his thoughts on what Hayes had just told him. He didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Knox, this is Susan Hunter. I'd like to meet with you, about Oliver."

Knox sat up. "Can we do it over the phone?"

"No. You never know who might be listening."

He couldn't argue with her about that. Someone probably was listening.

"Fair enough. When do you want to do it?"

"Right now."

CHAPTER 27

ANNABELLE WAS STANDING on the street corner in Georgetown when Knox pulled up thirty minutes later. He popped open the passenger door and she climbed in. He drove off, heading east toward the downtown area.

Knox glanced at her. The woman's face was flushed, her eyes red. He couldn't know it was from a little rouge and a little eye irritant deliberately applied.

"You okay?" he finally said.

She wiped her eyes. "Not really."

"So let's talk about it."

"I don't want to get in trouble."

"I don't want that either."

"Yeah, but can you guarantee it?"

"If you've done nothing wrong, I can. And even if you have screwed up, depending on what you tell me, you might very well get a walk."

Annabelle started twisting her fingers. "It's complicated."

"Trust me, my job never involves anything remotely simple."

"What exactly is your job?" she said bluntly.

He pulled over and parked on the street and turned off the truck. "Let's get one thing straight. This is not an information exchange. You talk, I listen. If it's good, I help you. If you're screwing me over, well, just don't."

She drew a long breath and plunged in. "Oliver was very secretive. Nobody really knew anything concrete about his past. But we could all tell he was special, different. You probably saw the books in his cottage. He spoke different languages. He just carried himself in a different way."